Descant
by Vaeru
Summary: G1/Jux compliant. Requiem sequel. Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and glared.
1. Part One

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Descant

**Summary: **G1/Jux compliant. Requiem sequel. Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and glared.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **mild mech gore

**Author Notes:** Cafei made me do it! I have a stamp to prove it. XD

* * *

**Descant**

**Part One**

* * *

_**Dr. Rodney McKay: **__I'm not sure I can fix this. __**  
Dr. Peter Grodin: **__You can fix anything. __**  
Dr. Rodney McKay: **__Who told you that? __**  
Dr. Peter Grodin: **__You did. On several occasions.  
_**- ****Stargate: Atlantis**

* * *

Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and _glared. _The local stationed medic shrank back slightly, but the anti-grav litter acting as barrier between them (currently occupied by the aforementioned half-scrapped mech) seemed to give him a sense of security.

"I'm telling you, I _can't._" The dark blue mech gestured fiercely to the rows upon rows of other litters set up within the scattered bits of shelter that were all that remained of the Autobot base. "We're all working triple-shifts, some of us are still working on _triage, _and senior medic or no, I do not have the time for repairs this extensive! He's stable; he can _wait."_

The air was heavy with the scents of smoke and stale energon, and the distant sounds of ongoing battle thundered from over the northeast ridge. With the recent debilitating attack made by the Decepticons upon the local Autobot outpost, Bernabier 2 had become a fierce hotspot in the ongoing Autobot-Decepticon conflict, and when things got hot, the Council sent in the best mechs available to deal with it.

Another rumbling boom, accompanied by an impressive octarine glow against the pale violet sky, caused Prowl to suspect that sending in the Wreckers for this particular mission was even moreso overkill than sending in a Prime's unit had been.

The white mech glanced down at the mangled ruins of the downed mech's optics and torso and felt his systems heat with ire. "Stable he may be, but his entire sensor net has been offlined or dulled to the point of no use. Leaving him like this is paramount to torture."

"Believe me, there's worse torture than being numb, and the shape he's in, it's probably a blessing." The medic's systems vented with a loud, growling noise. "You are keeping me from patients who may _die _without treatment."

Prowl's sensory panels flicked in irritation before he forced them to assume their usual upright positions. As much as it grated, the other mech was correct.

"Very well," he said at last. "My apologies."

The medic would not meet his gaze. "I'll put him on the priority list when these are stable," he said, a hint of an apology of his own in his voice. "An orn... maybe two, at the most."

"Don't bother." Prowl was already opening a communications link with the Imperion-class battlecruiser currently high in orbit, relaying the proper codes to gain access to the system and logging on to the officer's channel. He pinged the ship's CMO and waited for a response. "I'll make arrangments."

The minibot who had first helped Prowl navigate the litter through the rubble-strewn remnants of the Decepticon base leapt forward to help again when Prowl used his free hand to pull the litter toward one of the open lanes of ground not occupied by supplies or wounded. The small mech was painted an obnoxiously bright shade, not that Prowl's paintjob all that subtle, but while the minibot was clearly too young to have attended Academy on Iacon, he was intelligent and willing enough that it was only he out of a crowd of other nearby mechs who had possessed the presence of mind to help Prowl with the retrieval of the injured mech. The tactician made a note to mention the young mech to Prime.

"Where to, sir?" inquired the minibot --Wasp or Hornet or whatever his name was.

"Landing fields," said Prowl. He sent another inquiring ping, and a channel was opened at last.

**:What now?: **The CMO's reply was heavily laden with annoyance and a definite undertone of 'this-had-better-be-important-or-_else'._ Prowl was fairly certain at this point that this was the medic's normal tone.

**:I've got a patient for you:** replied the tactician. **:Stable for now, but he's carrying information that Optimus will want to see, and he needs repairs.:**

**:Perfect. As if I don't have enough to do trying to piece together Ironhide and the rest of this Primus-forsaken suicide squad.:**

**:Consider it a way to keep your skills sharp: **replied Prowl. **:We're on the next shuttle up.:**

**:Fine, fine. I'll clear a berth.:**

* * *

"Primus blast you and your slagging sense of _composure _to the flaming _Pit!" _

Prowl narrowly dodged the soldering iron that the white and red medic had sent spinning with deadly accuracy toward his head. Said medic was in fine form and high fury, optics blazing nearly white.

"Repairs? He needs 'repairs'? The poor slagger practically needs a full overhaul, not even considering the mangle they've made of his processing systems! _And you didn't think to give me a little warning?!"_

Prowl ducked an electro-spanner and thought that perhaps Optimus did not fully appreciate the temperament of the mech he had so recently promoted as Chief Medical Officer of his unit.

"Ratchet--"

"Get the slag out of my 'bay!"

"I _can't."_ He recieved a spool of wire to his chevron, and it took a moment for the sensors in his helm to stop sending error messages to his CPU. He shook his head, rebooted several jarred programs, and sent a quelling glare at the other mech. "Ratchet, he won't let go."

"He _what?"_

Prowl lifted his trapped hand, dragging up the arm of the quiescent mech with it. Black fingers, scratched and worn, were wrapped tightly around Prowl's white ones with surprising force. Ratchet, wrench still in hand but forgotten for the moment, came over to the berth and peered at the situation. He gave Prowl an unamused look.

"So? I doubt someone used a perma-bonding agent on you."

Prowl narrowed his optics. Grasping the downed mech's wrist in his free hand, he wrenched his hand away.

The shell upon the medical berth shuddered violently, and a thin, static-laden moan came from the mech's vocalizer as his hand stretched toward Prowl. The ultrasonic keen of a suffering mech cut through the air and made both Prowl and Ratchet shiver as their sensors tingled unpleasantly, and the tactician clasped the searching hand firmly once more, sending a defiant glance toward the medic. The noise subsided a moment later, and the injured mech stilled.

"Alright, fine," said Ratchet at last, his voice, subdued though it was, seeming loud in the sudden silence. "I'll offline him, and _then_ you can get the slag out of my 'bay."

* * *

**"Prowl, get your aft down to the medbay."**

The white mech's sensory panels twitched faintly in irritation. The message had come loud and clear over the shipwide comms, and the bridge crew were all exchanging furtive looks of glee to see that even mechs like Prowl got the same treatment as they when it came to the newly promoted CMO. A quelling glare returned the errant mechs to their work, and Prowl restrained the urge to growl.

It had been less than half an orn since he had left the medic to his work. Prowl had been back down to the planetoid's surface twice: once to return to the ruined Decepticon base and finish his original mission (aiding in the decryption of files retrieved from the Decepticon computers) and then again to aid Optimus Prime in planning a final assault to push the last of the Decepticon forces from the planet. The assault had been a success, and he had since returned to the ship to help direct the flow of supplies and personnel to and from the ship.

"Can it wait, Ratchet?"

The open channel crackled with static, and then there was a loud shuffle and a crash. Prowl frowned, optics narrowing in consternation.

"Ratchet?"

_**"No, **_**it slagging well can **_**not **_**wait," **snarled the other mech, the word 'not' punctuated with a muffled _klang!_ and the overall tone suggesting that the medic was working himself into one fine show of temper.**"You. 'Bay. **_**Now."**_

The channel cut off with a click.

A faint snigger drifted over from one of the far workstations. Prowl focused his glare in that direction, holding it there momentarily before turning to glance toward a brown and red mech off to his right. "Sawtooth, you're in command. Call me if anything happens."

When the bridge doors had closed behind him, he magnaminously decided to ignore the muffled roar of laughter that erupted after his exit.

* * *

"I really wish you would make up your mind," said Prowl as he stepped into the medbay.

At least, that was what he had been intending to say. He got as far as _'I rea--'_ before he saw the multitudes of tools and parts scattered across the floor and the spattered trail of energon, already fading from its brilliant pink color to a more pastel shade, leading away from one of the empty berths toward the back of the room. What few injured mechs that remained in the 'bay were offline, thankfully, as Ratchet tried cautiously to edge nearer to the pathetic specimen of a Cybertronian that had wedged himself into a back corner of the medbay.

_"Ratchet?" _demanded Prowl incredulously.

"Took your slagging time, did you?" snarled the medic, not bothering to look away from his errant patient. "Get over here. I don't care if you have to _hug _him, but help me get him back on that berth before he rips more than just a few circulatory lines!"

"Where's Wheeljack?" Prowl strode forward immediately, and as he rounded the last berth between himself and the unfolding drama, he saw the reason for Ratchet's caution: the injured mech had acquired a laser scalpel and was holding it before himself in a decidedly aggressive (if shaky) manner. "Isn't he supposed to help with things like this? Or security?"

_"Wheeljack _is currently going through the cargo to find parts that actually fit this model, thank you very much," replied the medic acidly, "and even if there were any security mechs left on board that weren't currently in multiple pieces, do you think I'd sic them on a mech in as bad shape as this one?"

Prowl had a sudden mental image of the minibot Brawn trying to 'gently' restrain the mech in question.

"Ah," he said.

The injured mech had only the barest remnants of armor upon his frame, wires and tubing exposed at particularly critical --and painful-- junctures. Energon dripped from the side of his neck, where a transfusion shunt would have been attached. He had, perhaps, once been black and white, but entire sections of living metal were graying from lack of adequate energy to sustain them, and he was so battered and scratched and dented and dirty that it was a wonder that Ratchet had been able to determine his model at all. It was also a wonder that he was able to stand or move; his systems throbbed and chuttered unhealthily, vents working far too hard, but Prowl suspected that the wall behind him was more than halfway responsible for his continued upright position.

Uncertain as to what exactly it was that he was supposed to do that Ratchet or any other mech could not, Prowl nonetheless took up a position to the medic's right and put his battle computer to work trying to calculate the best way to defuse the situation.

And as Prowl stepped closer, the injured mech shivered, turning his head blindly toward the tactician. Prowl's systems surged at the sight of the ugly gaps where optics should have been, but then an unhealthy static-laden hissing and growling came from the unnamed mech's vocalizer, and it took a moment for Prowl to realize that it was not merely a glitch but a word.

_"Rrwl?"_

Ratchet's systems let out a surprised rev. "Did he just...?"

Prowl stepped forward, reaching out with careful slowness to touch the trembling black hand that held the laser-scalpel. The mech jumped, shuddering, but made no resistance when Prowl carefully pulled the tool free and passed it back to Ratchet.

"I'll be damned," said the medic, sounding awed.

He subspaced the scalpel and came forward to help Prowl move the unsteady mech back toward the berth. Ratchet's touch caused another unsteady shudder in the mech's systems but nothing more than that. Between them, they managed to lift the too-light frame back atop the table.

His hand was once more trapped in a grip that was tighter than should have been possible, but he resigned himself to being held 'captive' until Ratchet had the situation more in hand. However, when Ratchet first reached out and touched the injury in the side of the mech's neck, the patient jerked away, prompting a vicious curse from the medic as more spatters of pink fluid fell upon the table.

"Hold _still, _Primus fraggit," hissed the medic, regardless of the fact that the mech could not hear or see him, but his movements remained carefully gentle despite his tone.

With a quiet grumble of his systems, Prowl pulled his hand free of the injured mech's grip, keeping a hold of his wrist, and grabbed Ratchet's hand. He pushed the black and red hands together and held them there firmly, ignoring Ratchet's startled growl. After a moment, the frantic cycling of the injured mech's systems slowed, and he wrapped his trembling fingers around the medic's hand and squeezed.

"Yes, yes," murmured Ratchet uncomfortably. "Nice to meet you, too."

He eased his hand free and returned to tinkering at the side of the mech's neck, this time with no interference.

"How far have you gotten?" asked Prowl.

"How far have I gotten, he asks," muttered the medic. One red hand was flipping and twisting into a complicated tool. "As if treating torture victims was as simple as a coolant flush. Do you have _any _idea what you've brought in here for me to work on?"

Prowl tried to keep his gaze implacable, and after a long moment, Ratchet merely narrowed his optics and growled, turning his attention to his patient.

"Repaired the life-threatening damage." The medic's voice was distracted as he carefully sealed the broken circulatory lines, retrieved and untangled the energon shunt tubes that still dangled from the medical apparatus above the berth, and reattached the energon shunt to the appropriate lines in the patient's neck. The procedure prompted an uncomfortable twitch, but the mech otherwise lay still. "Brought most of his tactile sensors back online. Did the medics on the planet not even do a diagnostic? He wasn't numb; he was in agony. As soon as a sensor was damaged, it came back online."

"I... see. The medic was... distracted," said Prowl, but the dark tone remained in Ratchet's voice as he continued.

"Took a while to root out _that _little programming glitch," growled Ratchet, looking at the side of the once-black helm, apparently examining the uplink ports located there, "and if I ever get my hands on the mech that thought it up, I'll make spark isolation look like a hot cleanser bath compared to what _I'll _do to him."

Prowl had no doubt that the mech could, and would, follow through with that threat given a chance.

"And about the time I was getting past the foreign firewalls in his systems, he jumps up and makes like a petrorabbit straight into the wall." The darkness in his voice faded, replaced by disgruntlement. "Yanked the fragging cord straight out."

The tactician made a small noise of sympathy. Getting tossed out of an uplink like that was not an experience that anyone ever wanted to repeat twice; he had once heard someone describe it as an instant high-grade hangover, only without the fun of the overcharge first.

The medic's systems vented, and he reached around to the back of his helm to pull out the uplink cord again.

"Well, it's another symptom, if nothing else," he said, sounding weary. "Lowered stasis requirements. Need to fix that, too. But first..." He plugged the cord into the port at the side of the other mech's helm, moving with care that belied his earlier shows of temper. The medic's eyes dimmed and began to flicker.

"Do you require assistance?" asked Prowl.

"No, no, just... stay where you are. Hah." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of the medic's mouth. "He says you 'feel' different. Cute. Now, let's see if we can get those firewalls down..."

* * *

**End Part One**

* * *

_**Descant - **__a melody or counterpoint accompanying a simple musical theme and usually written above it._


	2. Part Two

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Juxtaposition

**Summary: **G1/Jux compliant. Requiem sequel. Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and glared.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **mentions of mech torture

**Author Notes:** Moving slowly, slowly along. X3

* * *

**Descant**

**Part Two**

* * *

_Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive,  
and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.  
_**Anais Nin**

* * *

"Let go! Don't touch me!"

His systems, tender from recent repairs, sang with pain as he crashed backwards into the solid metal mass of a wall, and voices came from all around, jabbering, chattering, surprised, angry, worried, all too much and too loud, and there were still hands gripping his arms and shoulders. All he could think of was flawless white hands and vicious red optics and those insidious little messages scrolling through his CPU like an army made of words.

_Do you miss your optics…?_

"_Don't touch me!"_

He wrenched one arm free and lashed out, aiming instinctively toward one of the many voices, fist scraping along the textured bunch of wires and tubes of a Cybertronian throat, and the volume around him increased tenfold, sending little flicks of static through his audios. His right side was free but only for a moment, because hands were everywhere, slamming him back against the wall and pinning him while he writhed and bucked uselessly, systems buzzing with the need to get loose, to flee…

His cooling fans chuttered in surprise as he felt that familiar-yet-not sensation of something brushing ever-so-lightly upon his spark, and…

"What is going on here?"

The voice was quiet but filled with the unmistakable tang of _authority _that let it cut through the uproar like a laser-scalpel through untempered proto-armor. Everything suddenly stopped, and the only noises were those of Cybertronian systems humming and cooling fans blowing and the ringing of metal feet upon metal floor, drawing nearer.

"Sawtooth, Lockup, Apex – let him go."

Jazz staggered as he was released, and he fell back against the wall as a source of support, his hands bracing upon the seamless metal. He could feel himself trembling. There was an echoing chorus of feet shuffling upon the floor, moving away, and he sensed the ring of space that opened up around him.

"I asked a question. Sawtooth?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Loop and Apex were struggling with the new guy when I came around the corner."

"Apex?"

"I bumped into the guy. So what? But when I try to help him out, he goes mega-glitched and clocks me across the faceplate. Hurt like a Pit-spawn, too. I think he cracked an optic."

"I see." Jazz hated that empty, emotionless tone. "Back to your assigned duties. Apex, see Ratchet."

There was a chorus of 'aye, sir's and the dull thunder of many footsteps, and he listened until all the rumblings and hissings and mutters died away… and Jazz was left alone with _him._

He was still shaking, and he hated it.

He hated being _weak._

"Jazz?"

His systems snarled, and he was glad that he could not see what the other mech's expression was, because he knew that he had made a royal aft out of himself, striking at shadows like some new-sparked protoform, and he could not have stood it to see any hint of that blank, cold emptiness of the other mech's voice displayed upon his face.

"I'm fine," he replied, clenching his fists until the metal creaked, until those damned tremors faded and stopped.

"Hmm. Come with me."

The other mech began to walk away. Jazz listened to the receding steps, gathering himself and waiting for his systems to settle. Recalibrating his sensors, logging onto the ship's network to orient himself, he finally straightened and followed in the other's footsteps, one hand trailing along the wall.

Still at the very back of his thoughts, strands of song drifted and weaved about one another, and he clung to their familiar comfort, thinking that things had been much simpler when he was still in the medbay.

* * *

_The world exploded around him, a roaring maelstrom that battered against his entire body, roars and hisses and shrieks and screams that tore at his sensors unmercifully, and just when he thought he could not possibly bear more, it vanished._

_Bits of text scrolled through his CPU._

_**Slag it.**_

_**Hold still. **_

_His internal readouts tracked the raised levels of stress upon his systems and the gradual fall back into standard ranges of activity. Someone was working at the side of his helm, gentle but firm touches pressing here and there, an anchor in a world of silent nothingness._

W-what was that?

_**Audio sensors.**_

_**There must be a glitch somewhere I haven't found yet.**_

_**There shouldn't have been any pain.**_

I-it didn't hurt.

_**Ah, yes. **_

_**Screaming is such an ordinary reaction to reactivated audio sensors.**_

Scr–? No, I mean… it didn't _hurt._ It was just a lot, all at once.

_There was a brief pause in the activity at the side of his helm – exactly 0.443 breems, and he again relished that he could access his chronometer and what other systems this medic – he said his name was 'Ratchet' – had unlocked for him._

_**Oversensitive, then?**_

_**That could be it.**_

_**Let me try something.**_

_He felt the other presence log into his central programming controls, and he tracked it as it shifted things here and tweaked something over there. A faint wave of static came through his audio receptors, and it slowly grew louder and louder…_

_**Tell me when to stop.**_

_Static became hums. Buzzes became the grumble of another mech's systems. Growls became the unsteady rumbling of his own body. The faint hisses resolved itself into the background noise of a ship, air circulating and conduits flowing with energy and engines humming beneath it all._

"_There," he said, and his entire body twitched at the sound of his own voice: rough, faint, and altogether foreign._

_**That's still a very low setting,**__ scrolled across his internal readout, accompanied outwardly by a growled, "That's still a very low setting."_

_He rumbled faintly. "Whatever works, I guess."_

_**It may resolve itself in time.**_

"_It may resolve itself in time –"_

_**If it doesn't, you might just have the most sensitive audio sensors of any mech created.**_

"– _If it doesn't, you might just have the most sensitive audio sensors of any –"_

"Please, _stop doin' that."_

_**What?**_

"_What? … Oh." There was a low click at the side of his neck, and the upload link disconnected. "As I was saying, your audio sensors are running at barely thirty percent of their full capacity. The only other mech I know that uses such a low setting is this ship's security director, but that was intentional on his creator's part, I believe."_

"_I can hear everything jus' fine."_

"_So can Red Alert. It's a matter of being able to increase the sensitivity when needed. I'm warning you: if they run well at that low of a setting, be very cautious when and where you increase the sensitivity. A loud noise at a bad time will blow them completely. Understand?"_

"_Yessir."_

_Jazz reflected the medic had not seemed half so annoyed when all he had to judge him by was touch and the occasional snippet of text, but before that thought could sprout into anything more than a brief musing, the familiar sensation of something ethereal brushing against his spark came over him. He turned his head blindly toward the source – "Hold _still!" _snapped the medic. – and the hiss of hydraulic doors and brisk, firm footfalls echoed through the room._

_Jazz dared to venture a quiet, "Hey… Prowl."_

_A faint rumble came from the new mech, and the footfalls approached nearer. _

"_He sounds better," said an unfamiliar voice, quiet and crisp. _

_Jazz had not known what he was expecting his rescuer to sound like, exactly, but that emotionless monotone was not it._

"He," _snipped Ratchet, "can hear you, you know."_

_A brief pause._

"_You sound better," said Prowl. "Optimus will be pleased to hear it."_

"_Th' Prime," said Jazz._

"_Yes. He's in command of this unit. How did you know?"_

_A prod from Ratchet prompted Jazz to tilt his head back the other way to allow the medic access to the back of his neck, and it felt awkward to reply to someone while facing the opposite way._

"_The, uh, Decepticon… Redline. He told me a Prime named Optimus had sent him…"_

Do you miss your optics, little one?

_Another pause, then Ratchet spoke, his quiet, conversational tone belied by the fierce snarling of his systems, "Redline, huh?"_

_Jazz shook off the memories of phantom pains and the mocking messages of his captor that filled his CPU. "Ya know him?"_

"_We've met."_

* * *

The blind mech gave a jerk of surprise when Prowl attempted to press a cube of energon into his hands. The glowing liquid spilled and spattered upon the floor, partly upon Prowl's foot, some upon the other mech's hand. Prowl frowned down at the mess, disliking the thought of wasting even that much of their resources, though a cleaning drone would recycle any viable energy back into the ship's storage units.

"Sorry," said the other mech, flexing his hand as though fascinated with the heat of the pink liquid. His head was tilted downward, too-pale optics gazing blankly at the floor.

"It's nothing." Prowl handed him the cube he'd intended for himself, making certain that the other had a firm hold of the container before walking back toward his desk. "Are you… well?"

"Fine."

Leaning back against his desk, careful not to disturb any of the datapads piled so copiously upon its surface, Prowl considered the other mech.

_Jazz, _he thought.

Without the bulk of melee armor to fill out his frame, the recovering mech seemed to have less mass than a femme, thin panels of tempered metal shielding his core systems, arms and legs practically bare of any covering. Prowl knew that Ratchet had harassed Grapple and Hoist into joining his repair team, forging armor and parts suitable to repair his newest patient, and hopefully it would not take too much longer. It made him uneasy, seeing any mech in such a vulnerable state.

"Optimus is extremely grateful for the information you provided. It has been a great help."

A mild rumble of systems, an uncertain head-tilt. "Yer welcome."

"Ratchet and Wheeljack have high hopes for an optical replacement," said Prowl. "Wheeljack has been consulting medical databanks for any relevant data."

No reply.

_I'm no good at this. _

He did want to help… even if the whys and wherefores behind it made his logic processors begin to overheat – because there was no answer to those questions except 'just because,' and that was _not _a logical answer.

"I…" Prowl broke off, pausing to consider. "There are open quarters ready for whenever Ratchet feels ready to fully release you. We'll be docking at the Hub within several orns, and we will help you however we can to get you transport to where you want to go. But if there is anything else you need…"

Jazz's systems hummed thoughtfully. When a breem of silence had passed, Prowl picked up a datapad and scanned its contents disinterestedly, at a loss for anything else to do. This was not going at all to plan.

"There's... there's a song," said Jazz.

Prowl glanced up. The black and white mech leaned against the far wall of the office, arms crossed in a way that suggested not so much belligerence as some unspoken insecurity, energon cube dangling forgotten from one hand. The blank gaze of the pale optics, not so much blue as milky white, still unsettled him.

"What song?" he asked.

"Don't know if ya've heard of it. It's called Requiem--" His vocalizer shuddered momentarily, words garbled with static, but he seemed to gather himself, and he tried again. "Requiem fer th' Lost."

Prowl _hmm_ed knowingly, returning glancing back down at the datapad as he noticed a scheduling conflict for the engine maintenance shifts. "I know of it. Fifth Age orchestral piece composed by Metronome to honor those who died during the revolt against the Quintessons."

There was a long moment of silence, prompting Prowl to look toward the other mech once more. Jazz's helm was tilted and his mouth pursed in such a way that he could have been examining one of the most fascinating puzzles of the known universe.

"Wow," said the black and white mech at last. "Er, yeah. That'd be it."

"What about it?"

"Do ya... do ya know where I could get my hands on a copy?"

Prowl considered the request. "I don't believe we would have such a thing in our ship database--" The black and white mech's systems let out a rev that was not quite disappointed and not quite relieved. "--but... I will put out some queries, if you'd like."

Another pause.

"Yeah," replied Jazz, voice soft and staticky. "Yeah. Thanks… Prowl."

"You are welcome."

* * *

**End Part Two**


	3. Part Three

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

**

* * *

Title: **Descant

**Summary: **G1/Jux compliant. Requiem sequel. Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and glared.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **mentions of mech torture

**Author Notes:** Just one more chapter after this one… hopefully. They have a worrisome tendency to breed when I hit the three-quarters mark. :S

**

* * *

Descant**

**Part Three**

_

* * *

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.__  
_**A Grief Observed****, C. S. Lewis**

**

* * *

:Sawtooth to Prowl. Uh, sir?:**

**:Prowl here.:**

**:You… you might want to come down to the rec deck, sir. The sparring rooms.:**

**:And why is that?:**

**:It's the new guy, sir. He's… well, you're just… you're going to want to see this, sir.:**

**:… I'm on my way.:**

_

* * *

Ratchet, _Prowl thought, _is going to blow a gasket._

The crowd of mechs encircling one of the sparring arenas stood still and silent, dozens of blue optics locked intently upon the unpainted, half-armored mech who was dodging and darting and bending and twisting, moving like a flicker of wind around the ungainly form of the sparring drone. The drone's arms lashed through the air repeatedly, grasping for its prey, but each movement was a mere second too late. It was less of a fight and more of an acrobatic exercise, really, but that made it no less impressive, especially when one took into account the unseeing paleness of the mech's optics.

The orange form of Sawtooth stood across the circle from where Prowl stood. He opened a comm channel.

**:How long has this been going on?:**

**:From what I hear, he's been in here since last shift change. This… er, exercise, though… Just a breem or two.:**

Prowl stepped forward, pressing through an open space in the crowd. As the mechs noticed his presence, they opened a path for him, the shuffle of their movements disturbing the odd near-silence, and if Prowl had not been watching so closely, he might have missed the faint hitch in Jazz's movements, the helm turning blindly toward him.

The drone struck.

* * *

Navigation was manageable. He tracked his energy signature through the ship sensors and kept one hand on the wall. He could go anywhere he liked. Sure, there was always the question of how long it would take him to find the keypad for a door or how much energon would wind up on the floor rather than in his conversion tanks, but those were bearable as far as difficulties went.

But this… _vulnerability… _

It ate away at him like a rust infection. He was a trained academy mech. He knew battle. He knew how to fight, but he had been trained as a seeing mech, which was fair useless knowledge for one who could no longer see. His original training no longer suited his purposes; he would simply have to _re_train.

The confrontation in the hallway had hardened his resolve.

It was not a matter of sight or blindness. It was not a matter of being handicapped. He had lost one tool; he would find others to replace it.

No mech walked silently. Their feet clanged upon metal floor-plates. Servos groaned. Engines growled. Energy hummed. The walls of the ship practically sang with the energy passing through them. Even energon had its own unique keen.

The movement of air was his new ally, betraying movement that he could no longer see. He could smell things now that he had never before noticed: the musk of oil and energon and coolant whenever another mech was nearby, the acrid tang of liquid energon in the recreation room.

He ducked away from the whine of the sparring drone's servos, feeling the ripple of displaced air as something passed over head, then stepped to his left as he heard it advance on ungainly legs. The thrum of mechs' systems came from all around, but he pushed it out of his mind.

Focus.

Another groan of servos. He dodged and spun back to face his opponent, then dropped into a crouch as the air rippled once more. Side-step. Duck. Turn, step, lean. Movements in a dance, choreographed to music that only he could hear.

His spark surged unexpectedly.

_Prowl?_

He faltered, the tempo lost. Metal crashed against the side of his helm, sending error messages scrolling through his CPU even as he staggered back and dropped to one knee. Cries came from all around, _worrysurpriseconcernfear,_ but he focused upon the whine of the approaching drone, gathering himself to rise—

"Cancel sparring protocols. Initiate shutdown. Jazz, are you injured?"

Jazz had not even heard the other mech approach, but Prowl was there, close enough that the sensitive metal of his hands and faceplate could pick up the faintest of heat signatures. A hand clasped his arm, pulling him to his feet and supporting him while the deck of the ship did a lazy spin beneath him before steadying.

"'m fine," he replied, shaking his head as though it would help his processor clear out the error reports.

"Do you need to see Ratchet?"

"Huh? Primus, no. I'm fine." He explored the side of his helm with his fingers. "Not even a dent. I had it on th' lowest settin', after all."

"If you're sure…" Prowl's voice had never wavered from its usual flat tone, but to Jazz, he sounded faintly uncertain.

_Is he… worried?_

"I'm alright," he insisted. A change of subject seemed to be in order. "What're you doin' down here anyway? You never come t' th' rec rooms."

"I do occasionally use the firing range."

"… there's a firing range?"

That seemed to be the cue for the gathered mechs to disperse. Jazz flinched at the sudden racket of groans and hisses and rumbles and the clanging of metal feet on metal floor, and he toned down the sensitivity of his aural receptors, remembering Ratchet's earlier warning.

"Nevermind," he muttered. "Dumb question."

"Hardly. Yes, there is a firing range."

An inquiring ping tapped at his communication sensors, and after a moment's hesitation, he opened an uplink channel. A three-dimensional map of the ship spread out before him, and the other presence in the uplink nudged his attention to one of the levels, placing a red marker in one of the rooms.

**:We are here.: **

Another marker appeared, a single room removed from the other.

**:The firing range.:**

And with that, the uplink cut off, leaving Jazz to close out the file on his own.

"Er, thanks," he said at last.

"Come with me."

* * *

Perhaps the other mech had not been aware of it, but they were anything but alone. Even though the mechs from earlier had moved away, many still loitered nearby, seemingly entranced by the sight of Prowl conversing with the blind mech. As someone who handled sensitive information as a matter of course, the lack of privacy grated on him.

He led the way back to the hallway and toward the lifts. Logically, the only private areas to be had were either his office or the living quarters. The latter was closer.

He was peripherally aware of the silence of the mech following him. It was not a normal silence. It seemed to grow heavier as time passed, thick enough to clog his intakes during the ride in the lift. Jazz's posture had lost the loose, easy movement he had witnessed in the training room; he seemed smaller now, as though he had drawn all of himself inward.

… which was illogical, barring some revolutionary new use of subspace technology, but he would have heard about something like that, surely, and why would it be put to such a strange use in any case…?

The train of thought distracted him, so it took a second for it to register that Jazz had stopped walking.

Prowl stopped as well, turning back with a querying expression even though it would be lost on the other anyway.

"Ya never answered me. What're you doin' down here?" Jazz asked brusquely. Then he drew back, chin tucked, as though regretting speaking.

"One of your watchers called me," replied Prowl. The sensor map of the ship indicated no other mechs within listening range – acceptable. "Though I will admit I was looking for you anyway."

"Yessir?"

Prowl wondered at the sudden use of the honorific. "Ratchet and Wheeljack have a prototype optical replacement. I don't remember the technical jargon, but they are trying to reroute optical signals through alternate sensory nodes. They're in the final testing stages. It should be ready within an orn."

The other mech's systems revved quietly. "Okay. Is that all?"

"No." Prowl peered at the half-repaired mech, examining his body language, his expression. "We send sitrep updates to the Hub on a regular basis. It's a bundle transmission: supply requests, mission updates, sensor-net queries, personal communications from the crew… In any case, I sent a request to an acquaintance of mine. He found a copy of Metronome's works, including Requiem for the Lost."

Jazz's posture was abruptly a muddle of conflicting signals: head up and turned toward Prowl in interest and surprise, mouth tensely shut, engine revving with some unknown emotion, shoulders hunched… Prowl could not read it with any degree of accuracy.

He retrieved the datachip from subspace. Walking back to the other mech and reaching out, he grasped Jazz's hand and turned it palm-up, placing the chip into it and curling unresisting fingers back around it.

"There's a dataport in any computer console that will accept that," he said.

"… thank you."

"You are welcome." He was tempted to say something more (_Is there anything else you need? _or _You know how to contact me._), but he nodded once, released Jazz's hand, and turned back the way they had come. The errand was finished, and reports were waiting.

"Wait!"

Prowl jerked to a halt as though he had run to the end of a tether. He looked back. Jazz's mouth worked silently for a moment, then…

"W-will you… listen to it with me?"

Logic processors sped along various routes of deduction, seeking out _why_s that simply were not to be found, but Prowl found himself turning back toward the other mech.

"This way."

* * *

"Where are we?"

The ship map showed it as one of the rooms in the residential section, but surely the stoic mech had not led them to—

"My quarters."

… _well._ Even resting his hand against the wall just inside the now-closed door seemed like an invasion of privacy, regardless of the fact that he could see nothing of his surroundings. "Why?"

"It is the logical choice. You are currently assigned quarters with Hound, are you not? This is his scheduled off-time. He is most likely recharging right now."

"You're really big into th' logic thing, huh?"

A short pause. The datachip seemed to burn in his grip, defying his attempt to direct his thoughts elsewhere. The melody still lurked within his processor, an almost constant presence, and the prospect of hearing it out-loud was terrifying for reasons he could not name.

"It is my primary function," said Prowl at last. "It is what I was created to do."

"Gotta' be borin' after awhile though. Seein' all black an' white? 'Course, I ain't one t' talk," he added as an afterthought, thinking of his own paintjob.

"I _am _black and white," Prowl said, and if he had not known better, Jazz would have thought the other mech sounded wryly amused.

"Huh," was all he could think of as a reply.

"The chip?"

"Wha…? Oh. Yeah. Here." It was an effort to unclench his fingers from around the small fleck of metal. He did not even feel Prowl's fingers, just a faint swirl of air and the sudden absence of that tiny weight. "Got good speakers in here?"

"They are adequate."

A whine of servos, footsteps moving away –Prowl was by far the most quiet of any of the mechs he had met so far.— and soft sounds of metal-upon-metal, clicks and scrapes. The buzz of a viewscreen activating. A thrum from silent but active speakers.

And then… music.

Something within his very spark shivered.

It was the original arrangement, instruments and wordless vocals blending in the quiet, simplistic melody that began just as he remembered, and his frame relaxed as the sound wove around him, but then the song within his mind and the song coming from without no longer matched, and the music was not passively surrounding him anymore but pressing down on him, smothering him.

"Jazz?"

He felt himself begin to shake.

* * *

A shudder wracked the injured mech's frame, then another. His systems revved and surged unsteadily, but his expression remained blank as the sweeping trails of music filled the small room. Prowl watched, uncertain, then stiffened as Jazz… laughed.

It was an ugly sound, dark and sharp-edged and unlike anything Prowl had heard before.

"… Jazz?"

The laugh grew louder. The deck plating shuddered as the blind mech dropped to his knees, and then it was not merely a laugh, because the sensors along Prowl's hands and face tingled unpleasantly with the ultrasonic keen of Cybertronian grief. The laugh faded away slowly, until there was only the keening.

Prowl dared to take a step nearer. He tried again. "Jazz?"

The blind mech shook his head, systems chuttering and revving, and those too-pale optics turned toward Prowl, the mouth beneath them twisted in something that was not a smile and not a grimace.

"That's… that's not…" Jazz's vocalizer fritzed, fading to static, and he shook his head again, rubbing at his faceplate with one trembling hand.

Prowl wavered. His logic processors insisted that he call Ratchet, but that other _something _that had been playing havoc with his thoughts these past few orns stated firmly that something else was needed.

He reached out, placing one hand upon the back of the other's neck, ready to back off at any sign that the touch was unwanted. There was no reaction, unfavorable or otherwise.

_I don't understand this._

He lay his other hand atop one trembling shoulder, feeling surprise and something else he had no ready name for when the other pressed into the touch.

"I don't understand what's wrong," he said. "Are you in pain?"

Jazz shook his head wordlessly, slumping further until he was practically leaning against Prowl's legs. The tactician could feel the tremors from the lighter body all the way to the tips of his sensory panels, and he tightened his grip upon the back of the other's neck, one of very few sensitive areas to be found upon a Cybertronian's armored frame. It was a vulnerable place, one not touched in casual contact except between those who trusted each other, such as gestalt mates.

His logic processors were going to burn out at this rate.

Jazz spoke.

It was only a whisper, so quiet that Prowl could barely hear.

"… that's not how I remember it at all…"

**

* * *

End Part Three**


End file.
